


The Impossible Shades of Sherlock Holmes

by mycroftgetoffmysheet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Colors, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, attraction and denial ensues, could be considered a case-fic, john tries his hand at observation, lots and lots of colors, mood rings, overly detailed descriptions of eyes, sherlock's eyes, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycroftgetoffmysheet/pseuds/mycroftgetoffmysheet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If there is one thing that I know for certain about Sherlock Holmes, it is that I can never be sure that I know anything about Sherlock Holmes."</p><p>In which an accountant is impaled with a medieval lance, and John discovers that Sherlock's emotions correlate with the color of his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossible Shades of Sherlock Holmes

 

  
“I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin i want to savor, at the color in his eyes i'd use to paint a million pictures.”  
― Tahereh Mafi, _Shatter Me_

 

 

* * *

 

If there is one thing that I know for certain about Sherlock Holmes, it is that I can never be sure that I know _anything_ about Sherlock Holmes.

He is, as many (if not all) who know him would acquiesce, a living, breathing, violin-playing, deducing enigma.

A conundrum.  
A mystery.  
An insufferable, god-damned, bloody puzzle.

Unfortunately (or as I am starting to think, fortunately), I do not share his infuriatingly brilliant ability to deduce every single blasted thing about a person at first glance based solely on tan-lines and microscopic tea stains (it's maddening, really- You try living with someone who can read your bowel movements by the way your tie your shoes. See how you fancy it).

So over the past few years, I have had to come up with my own ways of deciphering Sherlock's arbitrary moods (for the sake of my sanity, mind you- If not for my self-preservation alone).

I have discovered after months of _very_ diligent observation of the man, (which have earned me more than a few annoyed/idly-confused glances) that Sherlock's moods can be analyzed and deciphered by something as human and as normal as his _eyes_.

  
But alas, there's no aspect of Sherlock bloody Holmes that can be categorized as "normal", is there?  
  
Those pale, riveting, _impossible_ eyes.

It's actually the _color_ of his eyes, not by something as predictable as their _expression,_ that provide me with the information that I need to make my own little deductions, and therefore allow me to act accordingly.  I tell you that he was born with bloody mood-rings around his pupils instead of irises, if I were the type of man who believed in that sort of thing.  

Hell, after all this time with Sherlock, maybe I am.

But, before I begin to describe to you everything that I've learned from staring deeply into my flat mate's eyes, allow me to take this moment to futilely reiterate that _I, Dr. John Hamish Watson, am a heterosexual male_.

Yes, yes, I know that people talk, and I am fully aware of what they say. I'm no Sherlock, but give me some credit. I'm not _completely_ oblivious.

Honestly, I'm just about fed up with trying to convince people (namely the Yard, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson) that Sherlock and I are nothing but _flat_ _mates_. _Friends. Pals._ _Collegues.  
_

_Completely platonic mates.  
_

Sherlock may not have any sense of personal space (or personal limits in general for that matter), and his social skills may be a nightmare. But Sherlock is Sherlock, and there is nothing I or any one else can do about it. Apparently, the fact that I have the patience of a bloody saint (after I die I fully expect to be canonized) and Sherlock doesn't find my existance abhorrent, gives the impression that we are romantically involved.  

And I'm getting tired of insuring that we are not.

So, think whatever you please about Sherlock and I.  
I will continue to do whatever the hell I want.

If I want to stare at my flatmate, I'm bloody well going to do it.  Think what you will.

I, however, can now take solace in that Sherlock Holmes is no longer the only person in our flat who can conduct scientific experiments on his mates (so HA).

\---

I've found that most shades-of-Sherlock can be seen during a case. So, as usual, I'll tell you the story of a case.

 

* * *

 

When I first started this little experiment, I'd only been working with Sherlock for a few weeks.

There is one case in particular that always comes to mind when I think of cases that have brought the most color out of Sherlock. It wasn't too long after I finished writing about "The Study In Pink" (I still think it's a bloody clever title, Sherlock's snide remarks be damned).

It wasn't a particularly special case.

In fact, the case itself isn't even really the focus of this story (or, as I like to think of it, case-study). It is merely being told so that you can better understand him.  I may not completely have Sherlock Holmes pegged, but I do know what others supposedly think about him. That he's this cold, unfeeling, self-righteous, superhuman creature that has no regard for anyone but himself.

Yes, he may be a narcissistic bastard most of the time, and no, he isn't the best at conveying interest or emotion when it's called for or socially expected of him. However, after living with him I have been able to make my own deductions about his character. And my conclusion is that Sherlock Holmes is more capable of more human emotion than most of the people I've met. And I've met a lot of people.

He may seem hardened, closed-off, sociopathic, and full of shit to the average lay-person.  
He is _Sherlock_.

But he is, beyond any doubt in my mind, completely and utterly _human._ I would even go so far as to say that he is the most human, and the most brilliant man I've ever met. You can always see it if you look hard enough.  

And trust me, I _have._

\---

You'll have to excuse my rambling- I've discovered that I tend to get a bit defensive when it comes to Sherlock. I swear, one day he is going to drive me mad. Although let's face it, most believe he already has.  And I don't blame them.

But at least they all know where my loyalty lies.

So, on that note, let's cut to the chase- or rather, let's cut to the _case  
_

\---

On the blog, I believe I entitled it, "A Knight's Tale".  
  


The victim, a 29-year-old male- an accountant who went by the name of Royston Pyle- "Roy" for short- was discovered (dead of course) by the night watchman in a rarely used storage basement of one of the older BMW production plants on the outskirts of London.

Roy Pyle was a very pale, dumpy sort of fellow- short, and quite large around the middle. His curly, mousy blond hair was in desperate need of a trim. He was wearing a plain gray business suit paired with a rather outrageous purple tie (Sherlock actually has a shirt of the same shade).

Upon closer investigation, Sherlock found a small, almost unnoticeable trace of some sort of clear, hardened gel underneath the man's collar.

However, the biggest puzzle (which was also the reason Sherlock agreed to take the case in the first place) was the way he was killed.

The poor bloke had been thoroughly impaled with what appeared to be a very old, authentic-looking lance (like the kind Knights used to cart around in the middle ages).

Roy Pyle's bloated corpse was lying on its side, the lance burried to the hilt into his pudgy back and out through the lower part of his chest.

 

I ended up having an oddly pleasant little chat with the night watchman, a rather small, frail-looking fellow by the name of Oliver Weslen, while Sherlock studied the scene and took a few samples. I wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying, but from what I can remember he kept going on about his wife and son like he wasn't standing 2 meters away from a corpse.  Later I wished that I had been listening more carefully, but at the time I was a bit distracted.

Because, as always, there was Sherlock.

Sherlock- who's head was almost flat on the floor and who's bum was up in the air- was blowing air into the man's nostrils. He later explained that the man's nose hair had accumulated a lot of dust, which he had already taken a swab of, and he needed to get a clear view of his nasal cavity.  
  


Naturally, Sherlock deduced straight away where, when, and how the murder had actually taken place  
  


"Basement. Approximately 12:30 A.M. Cause of death? Obviously blood loss after a medieval lance- approximately 4 meters in length, made of ash with an iron tip- entered the mid-upper thoracic, piercing the heart and therefore eviscerating the left coronary and pulmonary arteries. Judging by the angle of entry and exit, he culprit obviously threw the lance from a distance of about 4.8 meters from the rear while the victim was busy-"

Sherlock paused for a brief moment, touching his fingers to his lips contemplatively as he gave the metallic room one last sweeping glance to make sure that his deductions were correct.

"-doing _something_ that required him to be facing away from the entrance."

I distinctly remember rolling my eyes before- for the sake of tradition (and yes, I'll admit I was, as I always am, in awe- the man is brilliant)- I chipped in with a compliment and the expected inquiries about how he came to deduce this miraculous information.

He narrowed his eyes at me incredulously, and he took a sweeping step towards me.  I cocked an eyebrow, willing him to continue.

"Oh please, John, isn't it _obvious?_ " he groaned.  His eyes widened as he willed me to catch up.  
  


Now that he was closer and I could see his face more clearly in the dim basement lighting, for the first time I was able to catalogue the color.

The color that indicates Sherlock is frustrated- more specifically that he is exasperated with the intelligence of those around him.

This color also usually means he is waiting for someone to ask him to elaborate so that he can show off (and usually, that person is me).

  
His eyes were gray. Not the run-of-the-mill, generic, halfway-point-between-black-and-white gray. No. They were more of a cool gray- on the verge of being either light green or pale blue- teetering dangerously on the edge of having a distinct hue, but not quite tipping over.

I quirked a brow in response. 

_A warning_.

I could tell where this was going. As everyone already knows, he can be quite rude, and by then I knew it was my job to give him a little reminding.

 

To my surprise, his face softened apologetically, the indistinct gray finally tipping over into a softer, yet still cold and almost imperceptible cerulean mist.

 

This color is the closest to a sincere apology I will ever receive from Sherlock after one of his impulsive insults. It's how I can tell if he is actually _sorry_ and not just feeding me the lines that he thinks I want.

It's what kept me from flat out smacking him in front of Scotland Yard's finest (and Mr. Weslen, of course).

I sighed.

"Yeah? Well go on then, explain it all to us half-wits."

I almost didn't catch the twitch of a grateful smirk before he delved into his explanation of how Roy could not have been alone and had been distracted by another person at the time of his demise. 

He was brilliant, of course.  Absolutely brilliant.  
  


While he was wrapping up with his usual Sherlockian-gusto, however, he did something rather odd. He crouched over Roy's body, his brow cinched in curious concentration, and he delicately ran his fingers over the fabric of Roy Pyle's tattered, dusty gray suit jacket.

A soft caress.

When he stood back up, his eyes were darker- like transluscent slate.

Colder.

Distant.

  
If I hadn't known any better, I would have said that the he looked almost sentimental. Sad. Maybe even a bit _afraid_.

At the time, I just chalked it up to the bad lighting.  
  
\--

However, a few weeks later, as I was rummaging through my closet for something nice that I would be able wear on a date with Sarah, I discovered that I did in fact own- but had rarely worn around Sherlock- the exact same suit jacket (brand, c,ut and everything) as the one that Roy Pyle had been wearing on the floor of the basement.

So, I had the same jacket. It wasn't a very rare brand, and I can only remember wearing it one or two times around Sherlock.

I told myself he wouldn't remember one lousy old suit jacket. But then I actually chuckled aloud, because he is Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, and he most certainly _would_ remember one lousy old suit jacket. But then, if he did remember me wearing one like it at the crime scene, what made him make that face? What made the color in his eyes change? Did he see the coat and imagine that it was me lying on a basement floor with a lance through my back? That seems to be the most reasonable explanation, although Sherlock is usually better at compartmentalizing his emotions, especially when working on a case.

I ran my fingers along the soft, grainy fabric not unlike I had seen Sherlock do that night, and something burrowed deep within my head seemed to click.  Something that I in no way can even begin to identify or comprehend.  It resulted in this twisted, almost painful warmth that overwhelmed me for a moment before I shoved it away with the force of a battering ram.

  
I picked out one of my jumpers instead.

  
The fact that I still can't quite pinpoint what those colors meant drives me mad sometimes.

However, I really must continue, so for now I'll just leave the deductions up to you.  
  
\--

There were no fingerprints, and no other evidence other than the lance and the paste-like substance. After swiping dust samples from various parts of the lance, (Lestrade had to threaten him with arrest to stop him from carting the whole thing with us to St. Bart's) Sherlock wordlessly took off towards the lab (well, first the cab, and then the lab), the handle of a carton containing the evidence jars in his left hand, and my wrist clamped firmly in the right, tugging me behind him like a toddler.

Thinking about it now, the symbolism of that scene makes me smile.

In one hand there will always be "The Work", and in the other there will always be me.  
  
And then there will always be Sherlock, dragging us along though the chaos of his life whether we like it or not.

  
That selfish, brilliant prat.  
  


After replaying them over and over again in my mind, after dissecting them and analyzing every adrenaline-fueled, gut-wrenching moment, I have decided that I can describe the events, along with the colors that followed the cab ride to St. Bart's as being one word:

Electric.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted to my FFN account, Sher-Nuff. 
> 
> I figured I'd finally move it over here until I can pick it back up again.
> 
> Let me know what you think! as always, kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
